Season: summer
An elemental tranquility pervades Achmelvich beach. You notice it on your approach over the machair from the car park. As you reach the beach via the dunes, you are surrounded by evidence of its volcanic origins, including granite outcrops that appear to have cooled only yesterday. The sand is white and as fine as powder, on this occasion plentiful at low tide. The Scottish school holidays had brought children and kayakers to this part of the coast, so excited young voices mingled with the sounds of nature, a real pleasure.
The generational appeal of the beach.
A beach in the Highlands.
Season: summer
Like the two other Assynt beaches in the series, Achmelvich is stunningly beautiful, with facilities including a beach side campsite. The quality of the bathing water here has been judged as first class, allowing this beach to display the prestigious yellow flag. The surface of the beach is made up of white sand and there are acres of space at low tide.
What brings Tony to the beach.
A view from the back of the beach…
…and from closer to the sea.
If you’re heading as far North West as Sutherland you must pay a visit to Achmelvich Beach. Here’s a wee poem inspired by this beautiful part of Scotland.
THE TRESPASS
This is my beach;
this strand of white
unsullied by another’s words,
unruffled by the morning breeze,
unstained by rouge of blushing dawn,
all evidence of last night’s hectic fever
ebbing with the tide.
I wipe the grit of sleep aside
and search for rhyme beyond the green-stone point
where hulks of rusted rock
lie sulking, anchored to the deep.
I watch the day unravel,
picturing the palette’s tilt
as dabs of summer sunshine
verdigris the shallows,
spilling bands of burnt sienna,
persimmon, sinopia and icterine
across the flawless canvas of the shore.
This is my beach
and yet I give each season leave to make its mark
then note the scars and scabs of storm,
the dazzling spray, the gulls’ reluctance to draw near,
or snowfall where it frills the shoreline. . .
But now
today some other force intruded on the scene
with nerve enough
to pad across its virgin sand,
to scribble verse in stilted lines
and daub a patch of jazzy pink
to break the spell of solitude;
five toes, one heel,
paired off in symmetry,
two feet so small
my hand could hold both imprints
in my palm.
I came too late to see
her spindrift hair tied back,
or hear the squeal of shock,
or watch the grin spread wider
floating skyward out of reach. . .
this is my beach.
Phil Jones